Bad Code
by ghostwriterlondon13
Summary: Molly Hooper has always separated people into two categories like a computer. Good Code, which worked as it should, and was allowed to persist, and Bad Code, which must be deleted.
1. Prologue

**So how about a Sherlock with a little cross section of Person of interest involved? Weird idea, I know, but it's been hopping around my head for a while. Definitely AU.**

** Prologue **

Molly always knew bad code before she had even spoken to them. The foulness of humanity made it particularly easy. There were good people—good code-nice citizens who really didn't want to injure other people, except in the defense of their own family. Then there were bad people—bad code—who needed to be deleted. Child molesters, rapists, men and women who thought they could play games with people's lives on the line, murderers who slipped through the cracks, and liars. She hated them. There was so much bad code in the world, so many numbers that the world could go without. When Harold Finch came up with The Machine, she was right there in the background, waiting, watching. Root gave her most of the access she needed, allowing her to perform her own form of vigilantism. Separating good and bad code was usually easy.

This was, at least, until she met Sherlock Holmes.

Actually she saw his number six months before she actually met him. She found a man too smart for his own good, trying to shoot himself up into oblivion and dismissed him as bad code. But then, four months in, his number came up again, and he had saved a small child. He was clean for three months when he first walked into her laboratory as she was on the computer, spouting a great amount of data about her before turning around and using one of the microscopes, an apologetic DI Lestrade following close at his heels. Good code. Bad code. When she really did the math, she found that Sherlock was equally good code and bad code, a 50.000001% split. That tiny one at the end was good code, and thus she allowed him to stay, despite being almost a greater anomaly than a red haired woman in New York City who was 99.99999% good code. This made him fun to observe through the cameras in her free time, when she wasn't sending information in the direction of NSY.

When John Watson first came into the picture, there was no marked change. However, what she found most fascinating about the man was how slowly that one turned to a two, to a three, to even a four. She found this observation even more fascinating in the fact that she got to witness more than snapshots of it, as the pair were more or less involved in Molly's work life. She knew that there was nothing else she could do with the anomaly but perhaps perform a few experiments. What would he do with a woman who adored him? Who stuttered and tittered about? Ignored. That was easy, but it was a fun game to play, a nice habit to get into.

Then she met Jim Moriarty—Bad Code. Very, very, very bad code. He needed to be deleted.


	2. Observing: Frustration

Molly loved watching Sherlock Holmes. She wondered briefly, if maybe this was the love everyone else seemed so keen on. She thought he was such a lovely and interesting anomaly in the data stream and pursuing a sexual relationship with him didn't sound too particularly horrible, although it would have been amusingly clumsy and disastrous. Sherlock obviously wasn't too in tune with the baser details of humanity, and this included the act of sexual intercourse. Molly simply found it pleasing to select the right men from her observations; aesthetically pleasing, knew what they were doing, STD free, and not in the market for a long term relationship. Married, had a girlfriend, really just a douchebag, it didn't matter to her as long as he fulfilled the criteria. They were simply good for release and pleasure—must like eating very good food and watching a mystery unfold. The rest of the world didn't sympathize.

It was almost a euphoric godlike feeling to get a number. She giggled giddily, just as Sherlock walked in the room. "What is so amusing, Molly?"

Quickly, Molly pulled up a picture of a kitten rubbing his nose against a dandelion. "Oh nothing."

"Really Molly, I would have thought you would have gotten over such a juvenile activity by your age. Looking at photographs of kittens? Really?"

"T-they're cute." Molly stuttered back, "A-are you working on your—"

"Do not attempt to make conversation, it is not your strongpoint. Yes, I'm working on my experiments. Now please do shut up."

He must be in a particularly bad mood. Usually he at least halfway somewhat tried to be a bit civil to her, showering her with fake (although not entirely untrue) compliments in order to make his own work go more smoothly. Instead his expression indicated frustration. The fact that John Watson wasn't at his heels indicated that the detective was unleashed and the doctor was probably at work or on a date. Molly bit the end of her pencil and watched as Sherlock dragged out beakers and flasks full of labeled liquids and solids. She already knew the answer, his hypothesis was incorrect. When she was younger she used to go through experiment after experiment, trying to fill time and trying to separate herself from people that didn't understand her, that refused to while she spent a great amount of her time trying to understand them. She did now. People, while sometimes unpredictable, were easy. It was even easier to act like them.

She could tell him that oxidation would not occur. She could have told him that the widower obviously killed the sister on the previous case. She could tell him everything. But there was no fun in that. Sherlock Holmes liked to show off and Molly Hooper certainly didn't. Sherlock was a right and proper genius (although her IQ was still nine points higher, then again those tests weren't perfect yet) and Molly Hooper was just a shy morgue attendant. She wasn't supposed to know better than him, but she did. She knew that the experiments eventually become boring, and although there's no way to discover everything, the sheer act of trying to find an answer becomes tiresome. She eventually had to fill her days with cloak and dagger heroism, ridding the world of Bad Code one imperfect piece at a time. Just that morning she put cyanide in the coffee of the rapist sitting next to her on the train. His number came up, she performed his investigation and deemed that he was a perpetrator, not a victim.

Molly bit her lip, glancing up at Sherlock every now and then, "What's wrong?" She asked at last, seeing him stiffen slightly.

"Molly what did I say—"

"I'm sorry—it's just that, uhm you look frustrated." Molly ducked her head, and returned to her task, pulling up a picture of a woman—a dominatrix to be exact. She searched for her name, finding seven different aliases, but the name that seemed most relevant was Irene Adler. How annoying.

"No cases." Sherlock grunted.

"Oh. Well we live in London. Good thing about that is there's bound be a murder—oh no that sounded bad. Sorry." She ducked her head, and returned to tracing Jim Moriarty's number.

She stepped into his silly trap in order to figure out why his number kept coming up, and right away knew he was bad code. He was playing a game with Sherlock, one that would go on to hurt more and more people as he spread like the cancer he is. He disappeared from view, but he was still doing things. His number kept coming up, meaning that Molly would have to do something before he ruined her favorite anomaly and spread his bad code further. Molly almost felt pain at the protectiveness she felt when thinking about what could harm Sherlock. The only reason she disposed the world of bad code was because of her father, the only other person she could say she felt that same protectiveness for. On his deathbed, he asked her to make sure she only got rid of the "bad apples." He knew she wasn't normal. He thought she was a sociopath or possibly a serial killer. Molly was neither, but she decided to indulge him, and after his death it still felt wrong to ignore the wrongs of the world so easily.

Sherlock would never know everything she's done for him. He simply turned away and continued without speaking to her. Molly was fine with this. It was better to let him think he was the smartest man in the room. Psychotic maniacs like Jim Moriarty weren't exactly tripping over each other to engage in a battle of wits with Molly Hooper after all. That was the point. But it was starting to become boring sticking to her perch as an observer of her anomaly. So she fingered the edge of the Christmas party invitation Dr. Watson had given her the day before. It would be fun to observe her subject outside of the laboratory and morgue, as well as off camera. She even had just the dress….


	3. A Bit Of Help

**The chapters will get longer after the fall, because it is mainly canon aside from Molly's commentary and side escapades during episodes we've already seen.**

Molly sauntered up to 221B presents in a bag so heavy that the thin handle was pressing an indention in it. She was greeted and led inside, ready to watch the spectacle unfold. Sherlock was involved in a case involving the dominatrix. As predicted, they managed to cross paths. Molly didn't particularly feel threatened by Irene Adler. She wasn't bad code despite initial appearances. Yes, she had a percentage in her, but it rounded more to 80 percent good and 20 percent bad. Sherlock would be fine, possibly a tiny bit shaken by the end of it, but intact. It didn't help that Irene was attracted to him. Apparently brainy is in fact the new sexy. Molly didn't comment. Instead she waited for Sherlock's clever deductions, missing the obvious that everyone else saw and anticipated with dread.

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_Love Molly_

Her clever boy still had a lot to learn. She hoped this lesson would stick. If he could defend himself from all angles, it made her self appointed job all the easier. She didn't want someone to delete her anomaly. He was hers to study, even if he didn't know it. What she didn't expect was the apology and the kiss on the cheek. Progress, loads and loads of progress, all within a few minutes. John had done Sherlock quite a bit of good. The bad code was reduced by one.

The dominatrix faked her death. It was clear as day, however Sherlock lied. _Lied. _Molly was impressed. The man was quite capable of keeping his mouth shut should the situation call for it. Molly was soon distracted by a separate job.

She followed Ian Samuels to his home smiling a small smile, her arm in his as he stumbled, slightly intoxicated. Inside, she was pushed against the wall, kissed too hard by his sloppy lips, his wandering hands cupping her breasts, and clumsily pawing at the zipper in the back of her dress. Molly pushed him away and did it herself, letting the dress slip from her body. He was against she again, fumbling with his belt buckle while at the same time trying to grind against her. It was then that she hit him with a stun gun. Quickly, she dragged him across the room and strapped him to a chair as his head lulled off to the side.

"Hello, Ian! How are you?!" She asked in her best cheery voice, as she put her dress back on, "So yes, this will probably hurt—like a lot. But that's kind of the point, since after all you've been a particularly naughty boy." Ian jumped and tried to struggle against the binding.

"Oh dear." Molly shocked him again, "We can't have any of that now can we? I thought we had something particularly special. "You've been very naughty. Dealing weapons, murder, arson, not good at all."

"W-who are you?"

"I'm the person who will delete you after you give me what I need to know. The quicker you tell me, the less painful your deletion will be."

He struggled, "You're insane!"

"Insanity implies delusion that I am for the most part free of. I'm also not suffering from psychosis as far as I can tell and I do not have a frenzied state of mind. Although when I kill people, I don't feel particularly bad about it. That's not good is it? My father was always big on me following my talents. My talents seem to involve inflicting pain and killing without any remorse."

"P-please."

"Sorry sweetie, I can't do that. Now. Tell me who your boss is. You're not clever enough to have done this alone."

"He calls himself Moran, Sebastian Moran—oh please let me live—"

"Thank you for your help." Molly was quick in taking the knife and slashing his throat.

After she cleaned up—must make it seem as if nothing was ever there—she returned home to her cat, ready to watch a recording of Glee, while she was really watching some footage of Sherlock. Real life was always far more entertaining anyway.

It was months later before she found the need to get involved in Sherlock's world again.

She rolled her eyes. Sherlock was sulking. Irene was in some hot water with a few terrorists. Without intervention, she would be killed, he would most likely be lied to by Mycroft and John alike, but somewhere Sherlock would know that Irene Adler was dead. Molly didn't know how Sherlock would reach to someone he was sexually attracted to being systematically executed, and while it would be a good experiment, she couldn't bring herself to ruin the delicate balance of a man that she observed. She swished back and forth in her chair a couple times before pulling up a chat in her computer, typing out a message and sending it directly to Sherlock's mobile.

"_Karachi Pakistan, better get there quick before your girlfriend gets beheaded, my clever boy." _

She watched as various emotions flashed across his face; surprise, suspicion, distrust, and eventually acceptance. He pocketed his mobile and spoke to John briefly. That night he flew from the country and the next morning she detected him on footage in Pakistan. Sherlock listened to her. He actually listened to tiny insignificant Molly Hooper…even if her tip was anonymous. No doubt, she would have to make use of it again. Getting involved was fun.


	4. Observing: Cluelessness

**Special thanks to my sister CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen for 1. Helping me with my stuff (you're such a better writer than me it's not fair) 2. Finally explaining to me what your name means. 3. Not getting angry at me for answering a comment from YOUR account by mistake (it was totally your fault for leaving it up) 4. Telling me that I'm not a loser for writing fanfiction oh and 5. Demanding that I finish this story before I start any others (you have her to thank for this story probably not being dropped)**

Molly bit her lip, staring at her monitor with an incredible amount of focus.

Unknown: I know you're reading this.

She decided to reply.

Molly: Of course I am. I make a point to read the few messages that ever come to me. It's nice to hear from you, Harold. I've heard so much about you.

Harold: We might as well remove the assumption of anonymity then.

Molly: No one is anonymous. Not really. Not now.

Harold: How did you find the back door?

Molly: I followed the rabbit down the hole.

Harold: Is that supposed to be a riddle?

Molly: No. It's simply a long story. A combination of luck, a tiny bit of help, curiosity, and intelligence led me through it. The numbers are very useful.

Harold: What are you?

Molly: A friend I hope. Root connected me to you, but Root is not my friend, so whatever's next will be a crapshoot. Friend or foe?

Harold: Are you helping people?

Molly: Yes. Are you?

Harold: Yes.

Molly: Then I do not think there is a problem.

Harold: Friends then.

Molly: I like having friends! If I'm ever in New York I'll be sure to stop by!

Harold: Please don't.

[Harold Is Offline]

Molly giggled, "Well bye, bye Harold!"

"Who's Harold?" Mike asked, peeking over her shoulder.

Quickly she exited the window, "Just a friend I was chatting with. I should—I should get back to work, shouldn't I?"

Mike laughed, "You're one of our hardest workers. I think I can let it slide for now."

Molly giggled nervously, twisting her hands slightly, "Oh. Well okay!"

Sebastian Moran was a fake name; however she managed to trace it to a British NI under the name of Todd Brooklyn, a construction worker and former member of the military who had been dead for seven years. This lead her to a man named Harry Mendel. Also dead. And Jason Blackwell. Dead. They had all died by the same method, a sniper looming on a building. She could surmise that this Sebastian Moran took the identities of those he killed, and used them until he was in need of a new one. It was incredibly clever and she had finally gotten a lock on his movements—and figured out he too was connected to the name Moriarty. She had been finding pieces of an intricately woven web in places all over the world. She wasn't capable of supervising it all herself.

[Molly Is Online]

Molly: Look out for the names Moriarty and Moran and anywhere you find a connection to them, sever it quickly. They are bad code. They cannot be spread.

Root: I hear their names. What is so bad about them.

Molly: Think of what destructive psychopaths could do to our precious machine.

Root: Will do.

Molly: Good. Harold. You Too.

[Molly Is Offline]

Molly jumped upon seeing Sherlock enter the lab as he silently slid into his seat at a lab bench and began to check on his cultures. Cameras were limited where he went (Molly's greatest fear was having her subject die stupidly and pathetically off camera, that would be such a waste) but she still captured glimpses of him every once in a while, seeing that he was very much intact. It had been a case about a hallucinogen from the C.I.A's well documented H.O.U.N.D project. She already had her own token canister of the gas ready for a rainy day, but she doubted that it would work so well as Frankland's most recent version of it. Henry Knight was useless except for the study of the long term effects of the hallucinogen.

"Sherlock?"

He grunted, and Molly took this as a cue to go on, "I—I was just wondering if maybe you would uhm like to get coffee—"

"Yes. Lovely. Black two sugars."

Years ago, Molly would have made a similar mistake herself, unable to detect social cues. Smiling, Molly stood up and went to get his coffee, sending him another anonymous message.

_Clever boy, when she asks you if you want coffee, she wants to go on a date with you, not serve you. Should I rename you stupid boy instead?_

It was fun to see him a bit shaken by the message, his eyes narrowing at a camera in the lab as she walked in.

"Thank you, Molly. That was kind of you."

Molly's smile widened, "You're welcome, Sherlock. Whatcha working on?"

She then allowed him to explain to her with great enthusiasm the bacteria cultures he had going and how it would allow him to discern more about those around him. Her anomaly spoke for three hours, displaying the brilliance she never could, unafraid of putting himself on display for the world. It was during times like these that Molly thought she was capable of an emotion so alien and illogical as love. She was comfortable with her heart twitching and writhing in her chest, that tiny painful reminder that she was not a computer. Coddling the experiment would do her nothing, in fact it skewed the results, but she wouldn't let any harm come to him. In fact, she would never kill him, even if it was wholly logical. If she took the scalpel sitting on the table and killed him in that instant, not only would she be bored...she would probably feel a bit bad as well.


	5. An Unread Message

**Note: As far as I know, Mrs. Hudson's first name is never revealed so I made one up. If I am mistaken, please do tell me.**

Molly Hooper could rarely ever say she was worried. She often felt childish joy or displeasure, but she never felt fear and rarely—very rarely—felt worry. Yet this was the name she assigned the emotion that caused her heart to clench. The Machine coughed up so many numbers. It usually gave her one or two at a time, letting her investigate at her own pace, but it already knew that she already knew most of them.

Sherlock Holmes.

James Moriarty.

Richard Brook.

John Watson.

Mycroft Holmes.

Jane Hudson.

Gregory Lestrade.

Molly Hooper.

Her own number came up, meaning that she was in danger or about to be the cause of danger, either way not suiting her tastes when her name was drawn up in correlation with Moriarty and Sherlock. Richard Brook was the only unfamiliar number on the list and what Molly could dig up on him worried her. Richard Brook was Moriarty's real name. He was going to use his real identity to discredit Sherlock. Immediately, she went and pulled up every piece of information she knew about the two men and for good measure printed them out and stuck various documents to the cork board that surrounded her little hideout in the flat directly above her normal one. She drew lines with string, simply to make sure she wasn't making a mistake, trying to figure out where the truth began and the stories end. Moriarty was a master at storytelling. Molly was impressed…but why did he need to ruin Sherlock's reputation?

For the time being, all she could do was sit back down at her monitor and type Sherlock a message.

_The name Richard Brook should ring a bell. Storytellers like him should be damned. I advise caution, my clever boy._

It was arguably the least helpful thing she ever sent to Sherlock Holmes, but it was better than nothing. Sherlock became a celebrity almost overnight, casting him into the public eye where it was ironically harder to watch him. Molly's life remained almost the same as before, working in the lab and morgue and spending long amounts of time trying to figure out Moriarty's game plan. She took on no new numbers (logically, if her father were alive, he would forgive her for that) and withdrew from human contact almost entirely. Moriarty would drive her mad, but she supposed she still had the advantage; Molly Hooper doesn't and never will count. Moriarty didn't realize he was dealing with two minds; one that easily matched him and another that either matched him or was better. The second of these, he didn't even know existed.

She was always there. People just don't see what they don't want to see. That is, until they finally do.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead. Oh, sorry..." Molly looked down. It was true though. He looked just like her father when she saw him staring wistfully out the window at a life that he wouldn't have. Molly didn't quite understand it; she always assumed that when she died, she died, and it was inevitable to die as a carbon based life form. Yet for every day he was dead, there was an infinity of things that he could have done. In that, she could see the tragedy of death and why he would be sad.

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area." No, no it isn't but he had no idea what her area really was.

Molly decided to press on. She had to help him now that her mind accidentally drew a parallel between Sherlock and her father, "When he was dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought that no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly..." His tone was warning. He still didn't understand.

"You look sad... when you think he can't see you. Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you." It means that you've lost hope, and in your case you have when there still is. She's seen him, she intercepts his every text and she knows that while everything looked particularly bad…he still had her.

"You can see me."

"I don't count." Molly loved saying that. It was like she excluded herself from being a number at all. Her number was a zero after she removed any real trace of herself electronically the day before, after spending years slowly tracking down and burning hard copies of everything she is and ever was. No matter what happened, she could disappear "What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me. No, I just mean... I mean... if there's anything you need – it's fine."

"But what could I need from you?"

_Everything, Sherlock. _

He came back in his time of need, "You're wrong, you know? You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong." If Sherlock needed to trust her—or even admit trust, then things were down to the wire.

"Molly... I think I'm going to die."

Sherlock dying was completely unacceptable "What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything that I think I am... would you still want to help me?" Molly knew exactly who he was and somewhere, Sherlock probably knew that.

"What do you need?" She repeated, feeling impatient with the end result.

"You."

Molly smiled, sitting down at her computer, "Okay then. Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes of course I am—"

"Then I suppose we have a death to fake." Molly chimed, "That is…only if it comes to that. Right Sherlock?"

He seemed particularly shocked by her, and she was shocked by herself a bit. Usually, she would let him get to his conclusions independently, and share with the class in due time. But Molly wasn't the class; she was never part of the class, and this wasn't a classroom setting anymore. This was real life, not an experiment, and despite Moriarty's sentiment on the matter: it was not a game. Sherlock mentioned the code once more, intriguing Molly; there was such a thing, but only she had it; she made it after all. A few lines of code…that implied three, when in fact there were seventeen and it only applied to everything in the United Kingdom, not the world. She kept it on a flash drive that remained in her pocket at all times. She reached down to touch it as Sherlock told her his plan, his own brilliant plan for his own demise. Jim Moriarty was lying. She only realized this after he was up on the rooftop, watching from the cameras, listening from the device she slipped in Sherlock's pocket along with a silly note when she gave him a small and awkward hug.

It was too late to stop their plan from going into motion, but she did message Sherlock once more.

_He's lying, clever boy. There is no code._

It went unread, and he managed to make that conclusion all by himself.

Sherlock Holmes still had to jump.


	6. Observing: Forgetfulness

It was satisfying to see the gray matter of a bad code's brain pelting the ground. She didn't feel bad that he died. He killed himself after all. Her hands were clean and he was very, very, very bad code. But watching Sherlock fall produced a whole myriad of nameless emotions that flitted through her, never quite reaching the surface. When he was delivered to her morgue, she was quick about stripping his body, using the body that looked a bit like him. It didn't matter, his face was supposed to be smashed anyway. She revived Sherlock quickly, taking his vomiting into the rubbish bin as a good sign. It meant he wasn't dead…and he had eaten that day. He wasn't a machine. Maybe the fall would finally teach him that.

She bound and set his broken wrist with precision, treated him for his concussion, feeling his eyes on her as she did it.

"There was no code." He murmured.

"I know, clever boy." She replied thoughtlessly.

His eyes widened, but he said nothing. Molly easily snuck him out to the car she rented, the chaos more interested in getting into the morgue after she filled out his death certificate—Greg Lestrade acting as a witness because John was incapable of it—Sherlock could have trusted Mycroft with this task, but regulated it to her. She would make damn sure that even Mycroft Holmes thought he was dead. For that, she weighed the pros and cons of showing Sherlock her world when he woke, before he decided to embark on his mission to rid the world of Moriarty's sprawling web. He hasn't told her, but of course she knew. Molly knew him better than anyone.

Sherlock fell asleep for three hours after she gave him the go ahead, waking up in a place he no doubt didn't expect.

Her lair was a studio flat with blacked out windows and sound proofing, cork board covered in various connections she wanted to make without the computers (sometimes human judgment was best to examine first) and an enormous computer that she built from the best materials she could get her hands on over time, completed with six monitors, five showing CCTV footage, one with a game of chess she was playing with Harold Finch (they were forever in a stalemate) and one completely black. This one was where she usually got her numbers from. Sherlock was laying on the red sofa she had for when she needed sleep but could not bring herself to go back down to kittens and rainbows Molly Hooper. Toby sat on the back of it, staring down at the new man with distain.

"He's a friend, Toby." Molly admonished him for his rudeness, "He's not going to steal your food or mess up your litter box so you should get along."

Molly walked back to her normal flat and put on a more comfortable pair of leggings, a skirt, and a bright pink cardigan. Sherlock was still asleep when she began to check footage of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and of course; John. They were all in shock and in pain but at least they were still alive. Behind her, Sherlock startled awake, rising too quickly and groaning as he slumped back against the sofa.

"Where am I?"

"My place." Molly didn't put any intonation in her voice, as she didn't know what type of voice she was supposed to make in such a convoluted situation. "How are your injuries?" The right pitch returned.

"As predicted, quite painful and tedious."

Molly turned around in her rolling chair, facing him. Sherlock looked so gaunt and pale to her, but he was alive. Her experiment was ruined, but he was alive. He would know what she was truly, but he was alive. It was better to have an anomaly she couldn't easily study than to not have one at all. His brow furrowed, as if he was trying to figure something out. She waited patiently, used to the silence save for the gentle whirr of her computer.

"Clever boy…you were the one sending those messages the entire time."

"Good deduction." Molly conceded, wondering what his reaction would be.

He awkwardly readjusted his no doubt aching body before responding, "How?"

"How?" Molly echoed.

"You knew things—oh." He spotted the footage rolling behind her, "How do you have access to that?"

"The Machine."

"Explain."

"Once upon a time there was a pair of graduates from MIT who built a device that was capable of surveillance over the entire world. It is designed to detect acts of terror but it sees everything. Violent crimes involving ordinary people. Crimes the American and British governments considered "irrelevant." One of the MIT graduates decided to build a backdoor into the program for access to numbers. Then there was a little girl right here in London who didn't quite fit in. She very much liked computers through and soon she found herself falling down the rabbit hole, one day wandering a bit far into things in 2003 and she found The Machine. And then one day the NI number for a Sherlock Holmes popped up. She found that he kept popping up and coincidence led her to begin working at the hospital he frequented."

Sherlock nodded, "Does Mycroft know of this?"

"He knows he's being watched." Molly shrugged, "Only a select few in the American Government really know what's going on. Then there are the hackers. Some brilliant, some just lucky. Vigilantes mainly. But bad code gets in occasionally."

"Bad code?"

"Bad people." Molly corrected herself, "Bad code must be deleted."

"You mean killed?"

"No deleted." Molly corrected, "I discard their bodies with acid and then delete their digital footprint. Sometimes I'll go for hard copies as well, but that's becoming less and less necessary in this world as everything's going digital. It's much scarier to be forgotten than it is to die."

"Deleted." Sherlock tested out the word, "All this time...wait. Moriarty. Explain."

"Richard Brook, alias James Moriarty; Bad Code. Current Status; deleted."

"No. You dated him."

"He bought me food." Molly replied.

"By that logic, you would merrily allow any psychopath to run rampant as long as he gave you food." Molly saw the faintest trace of a smile.

"I don't. There would be suspicion if a girl turned down a nice looking man from IT who is willing to purchase decent food and show up for computer troubles even when said troubles on my part are nonexistent."

"The fulfillment of societal expectations. How boring. And here I thought I found a genius."

"Note how you had to resort to falsifying your death and I received free food. Who wins this battle? Me."

"Noted. There must be a logical reason for why you reveal yourself now, as you're obviously accustomed to staying hidden and not drawing attention to yourself."

"Yes. In order to most efficiently delete bad code left by Moriarty, you need my information and there's only so far you'll go before you actually question where it comes from. I'm skipping the distrust step. Do you trust me? A nice simple yes or no answer."

"You lied."

"No. You did. You told yourself I was normal, Sherlock." Molly heard the familiar ping of a new message. She rolled back over to her computer to take a look.

Root: James Moriarty has been eliminated.

Molly: Confirmed.

Root: Most of his men have hits on each other.

Molly: Noted.

Root: The Machine Is Operating normally again.

Molly: Again?

Root: The Machine was sick. Even Harold found that his numbers were coming too late.

Molly: I have not received new numbers.

Root: Noted.

[Root is Offline]

When Sherlock woke once more, he was surrounded by a pink comforter and found that his concussion had given him the strangest of dreams.


End file.
